


Floriography

by outwalkingthelights (LouisePotter)



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Akthar is a florist, Flowers, Fluff, M/M, Posner runs a bookshop, Post-Canon, except Lockwood is alive, excessive poetry, i should be studying for my a levels, i've never tagged anything before, posner is a sap, scripps even more so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:09:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7068259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouisePotter/pseuds/outwalkingthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luckily for them, they had learnt to read too far into things.<br/>Luckily for Scripps, Posner knew how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lemon Geraniums

**Author's Note:**

> Lemon geraniums are symbolic of unexpected meetings.  
> (I've literally never written THB before and I haven't written fanfiction in years so please forgive me in advance.)

David Posner had never been one for flowers. But, sitting behind the counter of his friend’s shop, surrounded by the geraniums – “Lemon geraniums, I’ll have you know,” Akthar corrected, looking over the younger boy’s shoulder as he scribbled in his notebook, “You can’t just put any old geraniums in. People are particular about that sort of thing. Like in Victorian times, when floriography was the craze.”  
“Who cares? Like, apart from you?”  
“Lots of people!” He ran his hand through his hair, messing up the dark waves. “Literature students. Victorians. People!”  
“What?” The pair continued arguing, not noticing the bell tinkle as the door opened behind them. The man stood at the window, browsing, listening to his old friends bicker over floristry and literature. Smiling absently, he picked up a random bouquet of roses and took them over to the counter. “How much?”  
“I- Oh, hello Don,” Akthar put on an easy smile, customer-ready. “Who are those for?”  
“Hector.” Scripps looked down at them, “I know it’s been a while, but I thought it would be nice, you know?” Posner looked shocked. He hadn’t seen the young writer in weeks. It seemed he only frequented their bookshop when the boy wasn’t working. To see him, now, all of a sudden, looking beautiful…  
“Of course.”  
“Well,” Interrupted Posner, “You can’t just have any flowers to tell someone you miss them. Right Adil? I hear people are particular about that sort of thing.” The florist rolled his eyes at Posner.  
“Don’t you have a bookshop to run?”  
“It’s Irwin’s turn. Besides, Dakin showed up. I thought they could bicker and have a snog if I left them alone.”  
“Good point.” Akthar sighed. “He is right, though. Roses are symbolic of love, and those particular – salmon – that colour is for desire. Probably not a good one for a grave.” He reached for the book he always kept under the counter. “Here, cyclamen – good-bye – and everlasting – not forgetting. Ironically, forget-me-nots aren’t for not forgetting… anyway, Harebell, too, for grief… Kennedia, obviously, white poppies, dark crimson roses.” He muttered to himself as he rushed around the shop. “No, no, those won’t do…” In the meantime, Posner and Scripps were left together.  
“I haven’t seen you in a while.” Posner spoke eventually, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of his voice. “I know, Pos, and I’m sorry. I do pop in at the shop but you’re never there.”  
“You could call at my house. I don’t exactly have much of a life, and it’s not like I can go out drinking with everyone.” Since his breakdown, Posner had been warned by every health professional he’d seen to avoid alcohol like it was the plague. “Alcohol’s a depressant, Scrippsy, and the further away from it I stay, the better. I-I missed you.” He snapped his notebook closed abruptly, as if he had startled himself with his words, and bolted for the door muttering something about needing to supervise Dakin and Irwin.

Akthar returned with a beautiful bouquet of dark crimson roses “for mourning” and white poppies “for consolation, and death”, but Scripps hardly noticed. He hardly noticed paying, or walking, or even setting the flowers down at Hector’s grave. But he had noticed the way Posner’s eyes had looked, a sweet complement to the lemon geraniums in the shop. And that scared him.


	2. Lemon Geraniums - A Poem by Posner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posner sits at 2am, haunted by the sunshine and Scripps' face against the lemon geraniums.

_My love, you are so  
Unexpectedly here after  
Absence has made my heart  
Grow fonder and  
Fonder and yet  
You have not changed.  
But there you were,  
In the sunshine and yellow  
And you melted my heart  
In the spring  
In the pools  
In your eyes,  
I am lost.  
Be my guide._


	3. Gloxinias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred Astaire and Posner in a bookshop?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gloxinias - Love at first sight

The next time they met, it was finally Posner’s day at the bookshop. The door swung open, and in he strode, a man on a mission- stopped abruptly by the sight of Posner taking advantage of the lull in the shop by dancing around the shelves and singing along to the cheerful tune “I won’t dance! Don’t ask me, I won’t dance! Don’t ask me, I won’t dance, monsieur, with you-“ He caught sight of the older man and stopped dead in his tracks. “Scripps!”  
“Pos.” Donald Scripps was almost in shock- Posner dancing? Posner displaying any kind of careless abandon? And now- was he- blushing? Yes, yes he was, the crimson creeping up his cheeks as he stuttered out a greeting. And Donald could feel the blush coming forwards on his own face, along with an unmistakeable wave of warmth that washed over his head as he walked forwards. One step. Two steps. Three. Four. He reached Posner and asked him quietly, “May I have this dance?” The song had changed now, the disk moving forwards to a slower song. The crooning voice of Fred Astaire played over the speakers and through the shop, and if they shared a quiet dance to ‘The Way You Look Tonight’, well, nobody was looking.

The song ended, but the two didn’t move. Instead, they drifted closer and closer and-  
“Donald. Donald. Donald!” Posner was looking at him, curiously. “Are you alright?”  
“What? Yes, of course.”  
“Was my dancing that bad? You’ve got a strange look on your face…”  
“I’m fine!” He snapped. The flowers danced in their window box outside the door, careless to the world. Gloxinias, Scripps noticed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”  
“It’s alright.” Posner was ever-forgiving.  
“I do not know, I am ignorant, I hardly see-“  
“Are you trying to apologise by quoting Neruda at me?”  
“Is it working?”  
“It seems to me that its song has the colour of wet violets.” He smiled, and Scripps continued,  
“Cup of tea? At mine, when you finish? I’ve got some new piano music that needs your voice.”  
“I’d love that.” Scripps picked up a book and turned it over in his hands. Auden. Of course. He quickly paid for the book and hastened out. “Why?” He muttered to himself, “Am I recognising flowers?” He wandered down the street. “Must be hanging round Akthar too much.”


	4. Gloxinias - Scripps' Poem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scripps spends some time scribbling on an envelope he finds on his desk

__And it was strange, but all of a sudden  
We were dancing on a heavenly floor  
His hands at my waist, his head on my chest-  
I was taller, but for a single song.  
In iambs I wonder my heart, wander  
My streets, an hour until we dance again  
Through a teacup, conversation, ‘til then. 


End file.
